


Layers of Fuck

by kiiwritesthings



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Demon possession, Demons, Gen, Ghost Possession, Ghosts, Layers of Fear - Freeform, Mediums, OCs - Freeform, Possession, Supernatural - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, Vomit, supernatural occurances, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16467146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiwritesthings/pseuds/kiiwritesthings
Summary: A medium and an angel walk into the burnt shell of a fucked up, ever changing home....There's not a good punchline for that one.





	Layers of Fuck

**Author's Note:**

> do i have another writing with vean on my account? yes. that ones old and inaccurate though. dont worry about it. loefey actually belongs to my friend tj. not my character, but he gave me permission to write her and post her here, so no worries.  
> enjoy!! :)

“Loefey,” Vean hollered, backpedaling and tripping over his heels before swinging around to bolt. “We’ve got a problem!”

This was not an unusual instance: a supernatural creature trying to prey on Vean’s particularly shoveable soul and stealable body. It was made slightly more strange by the fact that this house’s floors seemed to go on infinitely, and that he had almost definitely seen this room before- the particular crayon-drawn heart hanging just above one of the indescribable wallpaper designs was too familiar- and also by the fact that he couldn’t actually _find_ Loefey. Sure, an angel’s need to be invisible won a few more times than it should, but divine protection would’ve been nice.

Leaning against slammed doors did nothing, he quickly learned, wood bending against his spine and forcing him to stumble forward and hook an unsteady corner right. This room was familiar, too, lamp turned upside down on the table and armchairs desecrated with childish designs and rips and tears. The door bulged again, and Vean took a strong pass on seeing what was out the raining window this trip around to slam through the next door and futilely lock it behind him.

Where was Loefey?

He thought, for a moment, that maybe she had gotten caught when he wasn’t looking- stupidly they had split up when that _thing_ came, ink and paper and twisted intentions made physical and angry. But a demon like that would have a hard time even getting close, and even in the few minutes it took to find him he doubt it hurt Loefey at all and that was something he just had to trust.

The door didn’t crack or bend this time, and Vean breathed out when there weren’t any scraping noises either. The pause wasn’t likely to last long and he knew it, but his lungs felt sore and so did everything else. He sank into a squat against the door to take a small breather before moving on. They still had to find the heart of the infestation, but with how the house twisted and moved and seemed to warp time and space, he didn’t have any hopes that it’d get done soon.

His gaze flicked up, finally, to see where he had stumbled into _now_. The corridor in front of him was lined with windows on one side, and a draft had kicked in, guiding the curtains to drift into the area, obscuring just what the roughly human shape at the end of the hall was. Raindrops spattered onto the ground. Even with his jacket, it felt ice cold, and the feeling only crept in more when the shape came from the end of the hallway to the middle with no footsteps and just a ruffle of the fabric in the air.

It felt so stupidly horror game, and he was aware of that, which somehow made it worse.

So much for an easy investigation...

 

* * *

 

Loefey was not quite sure where she had ended up, though this portrait had definitely looked a bit better a few minutes ago and she was forced to wonder what had happened in the last minute that she wasn’t looking at it.

The room she was in was exceptionally dark- or, at least, it very much tried to be, distorting the light of her halo into gnawing shadows on the walls. It was supposed to be… scary, she thought? It didn’t quite hit, but it tried, and she couldn’t fault the house for that. She could, however, fault the fact that the aforementioned room seemed to constantly wrap around the center section and gave her no door out or in or up, leaving her effectively trapped and, once she checked her phone, cut off, too.

It wasn’t the worst. The quiet was eerie and the fact her footsteps made the most noise was uncomfortable, but wandering in a circle aimlessly was not something she was entirely unfamiliar with. Sometimes one side of the room would change when she wasn’t looking; books would fall to the floor or the painting would drip when it was perfectly fine before or the legs of a table would be swept clean off on one side, inconsiderately blocking the way until she could pick her way over it. Inconvenient, yes, but not debilitating, and she had a sneaking suspicion that this was just supposed to distract her once she went around enough times, and when such a concept struck her, the middle section sprouted a door after she reached the opposite side again. Ringing echoed within.

The door was, thankfully, unlocked, and entering was a matter of ease. The door shut behind her by itself. That was fine, too, because the phone in the middle of the room on a peculiar wooden nightstand grabbed her attention. It was an old rotary phone, one that’s paint had chipped off over years of overuse or lack of it, and it rang every few moments while she stared and didn't pick it up.

A glance over her shoulder showed that the door was no longer there and instead it was just another wall in the bland and undecorated room, grey and grim and the wood trim chipping. Some red drawing had been done in the corner- with a crayon, by the look of it, in some childish fling of joy that Loefey couldn’t help but smile at for a moment. A piece of the ceiling peeled off to hit the ground by it, sudden and just loud enough to snap her out of her reverie and make her jump.

The phone rang again.

There didn’t seem to be any other way out, and she figured she had probably left the person on the other end waiting long enough, so the phone was gently taken and lifted to her ear with a friendly “Hello?”

There was heavy breathing on the other end, before something similar to a recording kicked in- the sound quality dipped with the static injected in, words filtering in and out unsteadily, the voice of a man she did not know telling her information she did not understand.

“ _And in his earlier years… [kzzt] ...nother beauty of the sea, can you imagine? So talented, so-- [kzzt] pitiful, who would have suspected such an event to--_ ”

It cut to a different voice; a news reporter, by the temper and tone, more feminine in quality. Loefey tried to imagine the segment that went with such a story, eyes lidded carefully. It was almost as if someone was just holding a phone to a TV.

“ _Truly, a tragic event for today. A fire spread across the grounds of the [kzzt] mansion earlier this evening, overtaking the area in a matter of minutes as the local fire station struggled to arrive. Reports currently count 12 dead, including the kitchen and house staff, as well as [kzzt] and their darling child; the only survivor [kzzt] is in critical condition and is being treated at the current time. Next--_ ”

It stopped there, the phone still faintly buzzing but lacking the information she wanted to know. Her eyes fluttered back open, staring at the wall and waiting. It was no longer just gray.

In the time she’d been intently listening, the crayon drawing had grown; red reached waist high with orange and yellow pushing it up, up, up, growing in intensity and desperation as it tried to swallow the room whole, covering it as much as possible and still reaching for more as much more as it could have and then some and the ceiling groaned under the pain of it, under the thing straining its foundation and the drawn flame had somehow usurped the light from Loefey’s halo, dragging it into its depths like it would drag her and the rest of the house if it could _if only it could-_

The phone crackled again and the voice on the other end of the line chimed in, fully itself in the odd melodic quality it demanded to keep and grinding itself against a knife as though its words were not sharp enough: “ _Even angels deserve to burn._ ”

In a blink it was gone- the room untouched, grey paint slathered on the walls in even strokes, door suddenly where it was not before. Her hand held nothing, and she found it pressed to her cheek instead of a phone. The abrupt change was off-putting, but it wasn’t surprising that that had thrown her off or tried to in the first place. It was made to slow, to stop her, and to some extent it filled its goal. It, however, did not estimate the force she would throw open the revealed door with.

If they thought Vean’s voice was going to discourage her any, then she _certainly_ would not be the only one burning.

 

* * *

 

Breaths came in short spurts; Vean was more dizzy than anything else, though the blood staining his hoodie was likely a more obvious concern. His arm didn’t hurt as bad as the knot in his side did, though, and he had to lean against the wall to suck in air.

There were two problems now. Three, even, if he could count right. One of them was the demon; it’d gone off his scent at some point and if he was lucky wouldn’t be able to find him again, but he didn’t have any high hopes for that. Another was his necklace; the silver cross was shattered into uneven little pieces. One was, he thought, likely embedded in his collarbone somewhere, but between the adrenaline and everything else he didn’t notice or want to check.

The third was the ghost. It wasn’t entirely uncommon to have a ghost in the same house as a demon- oftentimes they had some personal connection from when they were alive and it drove a deep hatred and intent to stay in the living world. The pain behind his eyes meant that he had been possessed by _something,_ and since the demon had disappeared on the wayside, that meant it was the ghost.

Which was great and cool.

Burning lungs didn’t stop, but Vean roused himself into moving in long shambles. No room in this place had had any religious iconography- not that he had seen- so everything was that much harder. Another cross to carry around would’ve been nice. He didn’t know how many more times his soul could be yeeted from his body and still come back.

Where he found himself now looked like a kitchen. He had passed through before with Loefey a couple times, but this rendition seemed intent on being worse. The smell of rotting food filled the air. Apples on the table were bruised and worms came wiggling out of them and then fruitlessly onto the table, which was covered with a thick layer of… _something._ Vean was not entirely intent on finding out what, though that was partially because he was nigh immediately throwing up on the floor next to it. Having another soul possess his body usually did that to him. The food did not help.

His mouth and nose were wiped with a weary little _bleugh_ before he grabbed a knife from the nearest block and shuffled through the next door. If anything, he had to give the place props. The repeat rooms were tiring and confusing and orientation was a thing only to be dreamed about now, and the degrading state of everything struck him as old but inventive since they had gotten to see it as it once was before. Even still, the feeling of a bad video game stuck with Vean. Move forward; run from monster; explore room; move forward. Tedious, to an extent, and only intensified by how tired he was.

Not that he could stop. He’d have to lure the demon in later to destroy it, anyways, but the deep ache in his soul really made him not want to and quit this job. That’d be a thought to entertain later, when he wasn’t stuck in the back-end of a shitty abandoned horror map.

Rooms repeated. The knife in his hand felt vaguely comforting, despite his lack of knowledge on how to use it, and despite the fact that it’d be useless against the supernatural. The longer he went, the more the cut in his arm bled and he had to stop in a seating room to take off his jacket and begrudgingly cut off one of the sleeves to use as a makeshift bandage. It wasn’t a particularly loved jacket, and he could always cut off the other sleeve and make it some kind of shitty punk vest, but it was going to feel like ass while he walked around. Short sleeves were a poor choice for today. At the very least, Loefey could fix the cut, but her healing powers did not extend to fabric.

Next time, he’d bring scissors.

Another loop around- the rooms were staying consistent, more or less, just ones he’d already seen before that varied in states of mangledness. Another visit to the sitting room, and then again, until he lingered long enough to try to turn on the lamp because at some point it had clicked off. Or maybe it had always been off and he hadn’t noticed. It didn’t really matter, but it didn’t deign to turn on this time, so he forwent it and stared balefully out the window again. It was storming.

A bland blink. It hadn’t been storming when they got here, as far as he was aware. Though… in the corridor earlier, it had been raining too- maybe that was another bullshit feature of the house. Rain, but only when you were inside. On the far side of the- it was a little too meek to be called a courtyard- _section,_ something was written, obscured by droplets but stubbornly there. Vean, equally stubborn, refused to look at it and instead squinted grumpily at the lamp, before sighing and submitting to move towards the window sill instead.

The panes didn’t feel particularly incline to sliding up so he could see better- not surprising- and the best way to go about it seemed to be to get as close as possible, squint, and hope for the best- _not surprising-_ and he heaved a sigh about the whole procedure before submitting to do that, too. If the house wanted to play a damn game and have the demon pop up behind him then it would have to flinch first. If he was walking into it, he might as well be aware of it. Maybe the scrawl would finally let him progress somewhere other than this fucking sitting room.

It wasn’t even a good sitting room! There were two chairs, books on the walls, a weird as fuck painting and only a single outdated lamp. It was _small_. Why would anyone want to _stay here???_ Even without the fact the house had been twisted into something else, it was just shitty interior design and architecture! What shitty ass pre-grad student had gotten so goddamn high and mighty and made this fuck-up of a house?

Vean pressed his face close to the glass but he didn’t fucking like it.

On the far wall there was a large scrawling, though the letters took several minutes to work out and string together. It was in either red paint or blood and he found it hard to decide which would be cheaper- paint, likely, with the rain. Something cold crept up his spine. The words figured themselves out, and the door to the right of him slammed open as soon as he could process it. This was an entirely new place. Old planks and the less than faint smell of something dead and frames broke into pieces on accident or on purpose. He felt proud of himself for not flinching at the shitty jumpscare, but it didn’t make him want to go in there any more.

Still, it was the only way forward, and he fixed his jacket ever so slightly before entering. The door, unsurprisingly, shut behind him, and he looked around. At least he sort of knew what he was going for.

_DESECRATION IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL FORM OF ART_

Jesus fuck.

 

* * *

 

The walls were substantially more sturdy than they ought to be, Loefey thought.

Nothing had bothered her where she had been wandering but nothing had changed- she was either just as close or just as far as she was before, and no matter how many kitchens she picked through or attics she wandered or four-way corridors she found herself in, nothing told her otherwise. Trying to go straight through the walls had been her second resort after thinking over it for a while, but it provided fruitless when not even holy hands could crisp the drywall and insulation leaked out like pus. They were thick for an unknown reason. It was likely just to stop anyone trying to shortcut. It did not completely stop her, but the process was arduous and, when it just showed places that she had been, deemed not worth it.

To say that didn’t stop her from doing it a couple more times to make sure was a little ambitious, but the fact of the matter was that she was back on the beaten path sooner or later and that that was not useful at all.

She wondered, if Vean were here, what he would say. Something snappy, likely, like how the decor was what, from the fucking 1920s? Did it get burned in the prohibition too? It should’ve, with how shitty it looked, and Loefey wrinkled her nose because Internal Vean was just as linearly helpful as External Vean. Her hand hovered on the arch of a doorway before she entered. At the very least, Internal Vean couldn’t slam his face into the door, which he had done earlier in this endeavor. Loefey briefly considered following through with her own face, then carefully did not.

Stairs lead upwards and she followed them. This was not the first time she had gone up. She didn’t remember descending, but perhaps it had been rolled in with everything else. The attic was much like she remembered; broken wooden planks making up a precarious floor, a chest locked tight with paintings leaning on it, unimportant brushes and paints that had been long abandoned and forgotten.

Earlier, she hadn’t tried to break the chest’s lock, but now when she went over and cupped it in her hand it practically fell apart. The paintings were slid to the floor before the chest creaked open.

For the most part, it was empty. Dust and cobwebs gathered in the corners. The bottom seemed rotted. A piece of painted wood chipped off in her hand. But, right in the middle, there was a pack of crayons that distinctly reminded her of the kind children got in restaurants. Only four colors, and curiously all warm- red, orange, yellow, and black. It was picked up after a moment and inspected in her hand.

To say she got much time to do so was a little inaccurate, though- the floor suddenly collapsed underneath her and she fell through with a shout and the chest until they slammed onto the floor beneath. It hurt, but not permanently, and there was no trouble shoving the item off before sitting up and brushing away the dust and wood rot.

Where she had fallen was not somewhere she had had the treat to be around before. It looked almost like a basement with how things were strewn around. Tables were tipped with their candles somehow staying on them and paintings were stacked against edges and support pillars. Anything on the ground had at some point been knocked askew from their original positions in formations that Loefey couldn’t understand. The wood here, too, was rotting, and the pillars looked less like supports and more like balanced toothpicks meant to keep up a house made of cards and chewing gum.

A flinch was pressed out of her by a paper white hand on her shoulder. Latin was halfway passed her lips when she saw who it was, and for the sake of it she said the rest before yanking her favorite little ghost down into a hug. “Don’t scare me like that! Are you holding a knife?”

Halo light glinted off the weapon, held awkwardly at Vean’s side as he tried to hug Loefey back with one arm. It was a breath of fresh air, really, and one much needed though it was only just now realized. She let him go after squeezing him, then stared intently at his eyes. Red, but dull and not glowing. Unpossessed. Her eyes traveled down. No necklace. To the side. Sleeve torn off and wrapped around his arm. Ah.

“Seemed like the best weapon at the time,” he replied. There was visible discomfort, but Loefey thought that was more likely from the sleeve than her hand on his shoulder. She didn’t want to lose contact again. Especially if the demon came running.

She looked at the aforementioned sleeve again. “Did something, mm, happen? I didn’t see where the demon ran off, and I heard your voice on the- mmm, well, _a_ phone, though not necessarily one that belongs to me. I haven’t yet seen it again.”

A quirked eyebrow at that. He shrugged, fiddling uselessly with the knife and glancing around furtively. “I don’t even have my phone, so I guess that was around the ganking time. Oh, right. My soul’s officially shoveable as hell again and some shitty demon’s going to kabedon my essence into the fucking stratosphere, so that’s. Exciting.”

“Ah. I was wondering where your cross went.”

“It’s in my collarbone.”

“That’s a good place for safekeeping.”

She’d have to bless a new one later. For now, while Vean kept an eye on everything else in the room, she pulled his shirt down just slightly so she could pick a small section of the cross from where it had gotten lodged. It took a few moments for her nails to find purchase, but once it was pulled out she covered it with her other hand and the cut sealed with just a single drop of blood. The piece was discarded on the ground. Loefey pressed her lips together and looked at his arm again. Blood was already staining through the sleeve and the wetness was easy to see with the light of her halo.

Untying it wasn’t particularly difficult- Vean had tried to get it as tight as possible, but one hand and teeth was never ideal for that sort of thing. The cut was clean: a simple straight laceration with no extra tearing and it wasn’t too deep either. The skin was not: dust and dirt from the house had gotten into some of the blood from what she could see, which meant it likely got in the wound too. She hovered a hand over it, murmuring Latin, healing and purifying it best she could. It scabbed over and she used the jacket to mop up some of the extra blood for lack of better items.

“Mm, we didn’t bring any bandages this time. Should we add that to the supply list?”

“Kinda useless with you wandering around. Wet wipes, maybe.” A pause. “A gun.”

They were both aware a gun was, in fact, not allowed, as it armed whatever could end up possessing him. A knife was dangerous enough, but walking in with something like that? It would injure Loefey and whoever else was found at the scene. He still looked wistful, though, and Loefey could not blame him. Being forced out of your own body seemed uncomfortable to say in the least, and walking into a situation hardly able to defend that with something you thought you could use just made it worse.

Loefey dropped the sleeve on the ground and brushed over the cut with her free hand. “Another cross, perhaps?”

He shrugged again. “Another cross, I guess.”

Ah, speaking of things they needed. The crayons suddenly occurred to her again and she stooped down to pick them up from wherever they had fallen, one hand still on Vean as a stabilizer and comfort. They were still in the same shape as earlier- somehow unbroken but with a slightly strange color scheme- and she stood up again and stared. Did they have to draw? Illustrate something else on the walls to lure the demon back, or find the heart of the infestation?

“Oh, those,” Vean said, leaning closer. She could feel their shoulders brush together. “I haven’t seen those in a _long_ time.”

“Mm. They seem like children’s tools. I cannot shame them on their palette, but… hm, don’t these packets usually come with blue and green?”

Hair on her face, brushing her cheek. She was thankful Vean had washed his hair recently, because now it was soft though dusty. Her hand moved from the awkward angle it was being shoved into to the small of his back. Her gaze flickered up to him.

“He used to play with those all the time,” Vean said wistfully. The knife clattered to the floor and the hand previously holding it drifted up to touch the packet, fingers looking overly delicate. “He would always break them, and we would- _I_ \- I would find them stuffed in cushions and rolled under the dressers and chairs…”

A possession, clearly. It wasn’t the demon- too docile- and Loefey blinked emptily while she tried to figure when it had happened and what it was. A ghost? Conjoined with everything else, it made sense, but it was still alarming to some degree. Maybe that explained the bleeding. The demon would inflict more harm, so the cut could have been just an accident. A very careful, precise accident.

Her hand traveled up to clasp Not-Vean’s shoulder carefully, crayons still secured in her other grip. The ghost didn’t seem intent on taking them, though, just brushing fingertips across the bumps and looking sad about it.

“Do you, mmm, do you know where to use them?” Neither she nor Vean knew where the heart of the infestation was, but a definite bonus to having a ghost tied to a demon- as unfortunate as it was for the ghost itself- was that it could lead them where they needed to go, piloting Vean’s body and guiding Loefey by touch. The ghost blinked slowly before nodding once and starting in a seemingly random direction, around a fallen table and through a doorway.

There was a peculiar confidence with how the ghost led, arms tucked close to Vean’s body but strides sure and methodically avoiding the areas where the ground was crumbling. They passed in and out of rooms, new and old, and Loefey noted that the crayon drawings that had started as a small design had grown overpowering. There wasn’t a place they passed through that didn’t have some kind of decoration on the walls or chairs or books or even paintings. Crayons were occasionally scattered to accompany them, broken in half or dulled into nubs close to the wrapper, but she had the distinct feeling that they wouldn’t work for what they had to do. Still, when they passed by, she grabbed one and shoved it in her pocket as a souvenir.

It was still winding, but the guide made it less confusing, and eventually they came to another entirely new room. The ghost drifted inside wearily, letting go of Loefey’s hand to gently slide it onto the wall instead. Here, it was different. Here, it was the end of the road.

The room was, unlike everywhere else, well lit. Lanterns burned to cast the room in warm light, letting itself reflect off the metal hinges and embellishments on the chests pushed to the walls. The wood wasn’t quite pristine, instead worn from use and hands, but it hadn’t succumb to the rotting that most of the house had. Loefey drifted towards one pushed against the far wall to peer inside at the paints carefully pushed around to maximize the space. On the right side, a tall cabinet stood, and then Loefey finally let herself look to the centerpiece of the room:

An easel stood with a blank canvas upon it. Paint had been, at some point, poured in drops and swatches on the palette resting on the table beside it, but it had long since gone dry and brittle. Paintbrushes had either rolled to the floor or had gotten dropped, and she made a slight noise of discontent when she saw several had crusted paint on them. A shame. Lost soldiers to an unforgiving war.

Paper white fingers curled around the canvas as the ghost drifted closer again. There was a strangely hungry gaze at it- the glow coming out of Vean’s eyes made it just that much more off-putting and intense. Something was hollow about it. A far off stare focused too close, too close, and Loefey found herself wondering whether Vean could have that kind of look on his own or if he was only capable of it when he wasn’t there.

A glance behind her at the chest of paints. Some part of her wanted to use them, but the crayons were more likely to destroy or at least start the process on the infestation. She didn’t sigh, though she somewhat wanted to, and busied herself with opening the package and sliding out the black crayon to inspect it instead. “What should I… mmm, what would the _house_ like me to illustrate?”

She looked back at the ghost, who was already pulling off its- her- his?- shirt, arms folding awkwardly as he tried to pull from the bottom up, fabric not quite going the direction expected. Loefey blinked before a quiet laugh escaped her, filling the silence between grumbles and stretching. She stepped closer to shove the shirt back down- sure, Vean himself wasn’t cognizant, but she hardly thought he’d want to be on any sort of display. “If you wanted me to draw your likeness, you could’ve easily asked.”

“He used to draw me all the time.” Wistful, for a moment, before his eyes turned stormy and downcast. “During sessions, or when we sat in the sitting room, or even in bed… it was always an artistic venture for him.” Vean’s face scrunched, begrudgingly allowing the shirt to be pushed. He- or was it more accurate to go with she, at this point?- hand-combed her hair back and tried to put it up only to find there wasn’t enough to do so. The expression only got more sour. Loefey stepped back around to the canvas. “ _Always_ a venture. He couldn’t stop! I married an artist, not the backside of a _notebook_.”

“And you were naked for most of those ventures?” A small eyebrow raise. Loefey lifted the black crayon up and squinted at Vean. A squint. A circle, first, for the head, and lines for a loose interpretation of where the body was. She wasn’t sure if the house judged on artistic skill, but there was no harm in putting effort in.

“It ‘accentuated my curves’,” the ghost bitterly replied. Her shoulders hunched- a shutter racked her form as soon as crayon touched canvas. She hugged herself, though it didn’t seem to do much. Another line, another shutter. Her voice shook, now. “It- _hurts._ It always, _always,_ hurts.”

Loefey stopped drawing for a moment. The house shuttered, too- less noticeably but still with the slightest shake, the quietest rumble. It disliked her actions or maybe it was the demon galloping back to its center. She blinked, and paint decorated the walls in explosions upwards, as if someone had smashed a tube with a hammer and let whatever spray out stay there. She blinked, and it was gone, and then she continued drawing. A tuft of hair; an interpretation of a nose.

“You can leave his body now. We’ll… mmm… when the demon comes, we’ll have to deal with it. You can hide behind me.” Another pause in her drawing as she offered a smile to the ghost. She put the crayons down and lifted her arms invitingly. “You’re safe now. But we’ll need the vessel you’re… borrowing.”

It took several heaving breaths and something akin to a cry for the ghost to shuffle over and duck into Loefey’s arms and wrap her in a tight hug. A few back pats before the soul was pushed _out-_ it floated behind her with the motion, still hugging itself with tired arms and muffled sobs. The body, for a moment, went entirely limp before Vean came to his senses and pushed himself up and away then took a few more stumbling steps before falling to his knees and dry heaving. It was not a pretty act, face flushed red and shoulders shaking, but it wasn't unfamiliar either. Loefey made the note to maybe bring a couple water bottles and one of the cereal bars Vean overstocked on so they could both carry some with them.

“Fuuu _uuuuck,_ ” he said eventually.

“That is a good way to sum up our situation,” she agreed. She walked over to pat his back a few times and inspire a couple more coughs before his breathing steadied out. She had to be careful to not force his soul out, too, though the steadily growing ruckus of the house and previous jobs gave the impression it'd be lost for a few minutes again. Or, rather, aggressively squashed down.

Loefey pulled him up to his feet with both hands; he teetered for a moment before steadying. A thousand year stare at her before it transferred over to the easel in the middle of the room and then everything else- at some point, the paint explosions had returned, and now this room was deteriorating as much as any other room. The easel seemed to be the only thing unaffected, and they walked over with clasped hands.

Vean glanced over to the ghost silently wailing on one of the rotting chests, muttered “ _Christ,_ ” then looked at what Loefey had drawn so far and went with just as much indignation: “ _Really?_ ”

“You're a good subject to draw,” Loefey said. The current crayon drawing did portray a resemblance, but Vean looked at it with annoyance. That was no surprise. He looked towards the ghost again, then towards the door and the approaching racket, then shook his head.

“Cut me.”

Loefey blinked. “I don't have a knife.”

Vean made a sound akin to something annoyed or frustrated but got stuck somewhere in between. When a scan around the room provided nothing sharp and usable, he opened and closed the chests and then went to the standing cabinet. The doors swung open and snapped shut- the house shook aggressively and the door bulged as something slammed against it. Claws scratched against the floor. Vean yanked the cabinet doors open again, searching searching searching until he found _it-_ a small, rusty knife used for God knew what before- in the bottom left cabinet. Any remarks were shoved down as talons punctured through the door. Wood splintered. Vean hurried back and sliced his thumb with a bit of a struggle, then pressed it to let the drops of blood soak into the canvas.

It bled more than it should. Red seeped in and down to color the background and provide something like paint. Vean swore something under his breath (which sounded a lot like “Jesus shit Mary _fuck_ ”) and pulled his thumb back. The knife clattered to the floor, but the sound was swallowed up by the demon crashing through the door finally, the scent of blood having given it that one last push it needed. The ghost wailed. Loefey picked up the crayons again and drew drew drew whatever felt _right,_ and her hand was directed by an unseen force to finish the painting that had been started too long ago.

The demon was grotesque. Paper wrapped and bunched and twisted to create some sort of flesh bound together by dried yet dripping ink. Every flex of its hands sounded like ripping before the paper reformed into smaller slips or one big piece again. Its maw was perhaps the most concerning, quills turned to fangs that disappeared back into its impossible long mouth. Vean watched more quills appear and rows and rows of teeth become evident. They dripped paint at odd intervals, but the amount of them meant that it was a constant shower that forced any ink lingering in the bottom of its mouth to drool out and coat the floor. It did not take long for it to pinpoint Vean though it had no way to see, no eyes to guide it- Vean skittered away from the easel and let it pounce on him, heavy claws knocking him to the floor with a force that made his head bounce back up. Immediately he was drowned in ink and he choked, for a moment, before the papers of the demon started to flatten down and fall. They tore away from each other and ripped into pieces, covering Vean like a makeshift shawl before forming into solid, tinier things, ones that always seemed to form when demons grabbed him. If that was the demons’ disposition or his own was hard to tell, but it didn't matter too much in the scheme of things.

Vean rose up. Distinctly he was not Vean, judging by the fact he did not use his hands to get up, and by the crooked, pointed horns he now wore as well as the long, spindly tail that had a little arrow point at the end. At another time, in another situation, Loefey would call it cute, but it seemed anytime it appeared there were much more active things going on. Like possession.

The ghost continued wailing. The demon snapped at her to “ _shut up or I'll tear out those shitty little vocal chords you have again_ ” and she stopped, but it was clear that if she were permitted she would've kept wailing until she ascended and had a better place to exist.

Loefey glanced but didn't look away from her work. The painting was coming to something more concrete, now, and the crayon didn't look like crayon so much as it acted like a brush. Occasionally she had to switch what color she was using to suit whatever the divine influence that was guiding her said, but for the most part, it was looking beautiful. The work of an artist, though she wasn't sure that artist was herself.

The demon lunged for her. No words, just primal instinct and nails that had been sharpened into talons that tore through the sleeve it caught. She dodged back, hands coming up defensively, then watched as the demon overshot and stumbled unsteadily forward. Unused to the body- to the freedom. It had one singular focus and she knew it was destroying her. Demons in their base form were fine for killing most humans; only ones inhabiting human bodies could touch angels unless they were unusually tough. It was lucky, really, that her and Vean had met, if luck was not just a moniker for divine influence. He provided an easy way to exorcise demons that would in other situations be a struggle.

The disorientation didn't last for long, unfortunately, and he whipped around again to slice at Loefey. She smacked his arm away and with an apology socked him in the face with a glowing fist and sent him to the floor. She stepped over his legs carefully as he gurgled ink and returned to the canvas to continue. The ghost let out a shrill sort of laugh before clamping a hand over her mouth and muffling the sobs that followed.

Loefey got hardly a few more strokes in before her feet were knocked from under her, almost taking out the easel as well. She slammed onto her ass and the demon desperately scrambled to get up and push her down. Hands met shoulders and her head met the floor. A push, uselessly, against his chest, before her halo glowed brighter and eyes accompanied it. Her palm flattened against his collarbone and he flinched. It was too late to escape, though, and holy chains wrapped around his body starting from where her hand laid. “ _Haec vincula et custodiat te solandus inops, ut non stricte fines in vobis habui et consolationem in forma; ut darem te in proelium et obstringere quae continere non modo ne quid volo nisi quod tibi necessarium est._ ”

The demon strained against the silver chains suddenly binding him. It was a fruitless effort. Loefey pushed him onto the floor and watched him writhe for a moment before getting back to her feet. She didn't like using the chains- they gave a persistent dizziness and her eyes hurt the more the demon struggled- but she had held off long enough and it was necessary now. She had a job to finish. Vean and the chains could hold the demon; she just had to put the final touches on a painting that should have been done years ago.

Now it had a resemblance. A soft face with long eyelashes and long, flowing hair that ended somewhere off the canvas. A far-off stare from sitting still for so long, focused on nothing in particular. It reminded Loefey loosely of herself, but more of the ghost drifting forward and averting her gaze from the demon. The ghost’s hand loosely dragged across the planes of the face, the hair faking movement, the something she used to be and no longer was. It was silent aside from the quiet clanks and grunts of struggle.

The ghost placed her hand carefully in the middle of the painting and shoved.

Not often were physical object affected by ghosts. Demons, yes, and angels too, but ghosts rarely had enough energy to throw around chairs or influence more than a cricket to hop. This, however, was simple: just a hand breaking the canvas and its grasp on her as she destroyed her visage and the thing desperately linking her to the demon. She cried in pain and the demon howled something horrible enough to make the house shake and threaten collapse, but even now his power over the place had slackened. The heart had been broken. The canvas bled ink onto the floor from where it had been destroyed. The ghost withdrew into herself. Loefey took a deep breath.

“I am going to free you of your binds,” Loefey declared, “but only if you willingly pass on instead of trying to fight me again.”

The writhing mess on the floor didn't agree nor disagree, though he did gargle out ink impressively. Loefey doubted Vean would choke when he was like this, but she gripped the chains and hauled him up regardless so it would spill on the floor rather than get stuck in his throat and slide down his face. Drops got into his shirt and pants. Loefey quietly said “ _oops_ ” and tried to brush off the parts that hadn't yet seeped in, but they smeared onto her hand and into the shirt, so she just withdrew her hand and left it as was.

The demon snapped at her with his teeth, sharpened all to fine points, but without the heart he had already become much, much weaker. Glazed black eyes were more just a scare than meaningful now. She kicked away the arrowhead tail when it went to spike her in the leg as a last ditch attempt. He had already lost and he knew it. Now it was just futile fighting and hostility.

The chains disintegrated and Loefey put one hand on his forehead to keep him still. Her eyes still glowed, but it was a banishment that fell from her lips now, suppressing and destroying the demon bit by bit. The horns fell apart and joined the dust on the floor, ink chipping and falling with it. The tail dropped with a thump before becoming dust as well. Loefey lifted Vean's hand once his eyes had returned to normal to check if the claws had retracted. The nail polish wasn't salvageable, but aside from a few cuts she could heal, his hands were fine. It took longer, this time, for him to come back into himself, but Loefey guided him down to the floor and patted his back as he got the remaining ink and paint from his system. The floor was a mess already. She did not figure the owner would mind too much with everything else they had done today, but humans were a little fickle, and she could never quite guess.

Vean pushed Loefey off for a moment so he could wipe his face and she stood, letting him have a moment to himself. Her attention was instead diverted to the remaining supernatural creature in the room.

The ghost drifted behind them. She seemed more at peace now, arms wrapped around herself in a loose hug and eyes distant. Tears rolled down her cheeks but she was silent and untense. A solemness. Finally, she had her own peace, her demon defeated, and now she seemed entirely aimless. Loefey extended her hands and she drifted forward, letting go of herself to take them. A pull closer and Loefey planted a kiss on her forehead; the ghost condensed into a wisp, a single spot of bright light, and then simply disappeared from existence as it went to where it truly meant to.

The house shuttered, and then everything was quiet.

Vean accepted help up when offered it, swaying and unsteady, and they took one last look around the room as the stillness set in. The paint explosions had faded into the wall in uneven portions or had chipped onto the floor and crushed. Rot persisted as did burn marks, items charred all over the place. It was a miracle that the house had stood for so long.

Vean grumbled and croaked out: “Shit's ugly. Let's go.”

He leaned half on her as they walked. The door opened to the upper landing, and stairs lead down to the front door. They had seen the house as how it should have been when they came in, but now it held an infinitely sadder disposition, wrecked by the years and weather and trauma that had happened within its walls. Every step creaked; every wall shuttered despite how gentle the breezes were outside; every glance betrayed something else crumbling and coming apart at its seams. It felt dangerous until they got outside, but dangerous in a different way- like the silence would perhaps eat them alive before they got out the front door and the house would collapse upon them- but the front door open and shut and Vean casted a wary look behind them once his foot touched the porch and then crisp grass underfoot.

Night persisted. It was held at arm's length by the light of Loefey’s halo, but still it prostrated itself across the house's front and twisted shadows where it could. That’s all that the house was, anymore. A shadow. Vean hoped with a stray thought that they'd get more money for saving what was still there.

They hobbled to the shitty pick-up truck Vean had bought a while back. Vean eased himself into the driver's seat (it'd be a dark day when he allowed Loefey to drive again) and sat for a moment. Focusing his vision was a struggle, but he wiggled the key from where it was hidden under the seat and turned on the car to let it idle and warm up.

They both sat for a few minutes, half illuminated by the dashboard lights and half by holy presence, until Vean reached up to rub his face and yawn. “That dude totally killed her. Not surprised, because fucking demons, but Jesus.”

Loefey hummed a little at the Lord's name being invoked but otherwise ignored it. “He certainly implied that was before, mm… before he set the house on fire. Assuming he did that as well. I wonder how brightly it burned- it seems mostly in one piece now, so apparently it wasn’t too damaging…”

She turned to look back at the house. Vean begrudgingly put his foot on the brake and shifted gears. “Maybe not to the house. We could always light that shit up again and see if it survives round two.”

“It'd be an interesting, mm… experiment. See how durable burnt and aged wood can be.”

The path was rocky to drive on, but the house slowly disappeared behind them as Vean drove them closer to the main road. It was strange, watching it duck under the horizon, but once it was out of sight Loefey remembered she had grabbed a crayon earlier. She took it out of her pocket- still in one piece, miraculously- and offered it to Vean, who took it and glanced at it once the wheels met more steady pavement.

“I figured you would be… not upset, but less happy without a souvenir, so I grabbed one when things were less… mm, active.” She gave him a soft smile as he tucked it behind his ear and existed as a spot of blue in a sea otherwise composed of black and white.

“Thanks, Loafs.” He didn't smile back but he did reach over to pat her arm before looking back towards the road. With how tired he was, it meant the same, though she made a mental note to get him to smile later.

It was out of their hair now- all that was left was the paycheck they got and cleaning up the apartment again. Taking a shower, too, given how dirty they were. But otherwise it was fine, and it was nice to watch the road disappear beneath them and head home with the feeling of, for once, going forward.


End file.
